


That’s The Way It Is

by madeintheam



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: I just wanted closure - Freeform, Major Spoilers for RDR2 - Freeform, Post Epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 05:09:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18934099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeintheam/pseuds/madeintheam
Summary: John tries for one more shot at redemption.





	That’s The Way It Is

John Marston squinted at the cliff’s edge as the blazing rays of sun glared right back at him. He had never been to this side of Ambarino before — as far as he knew, Ambarino was a cold, wet, and severe land with a deep chill that took root in the marrows of his bone and lingered for days. John had resented the snow-peaked mountains ever since he was attacked by wolves and left for dead almost two decades ago. The deep wounds across his cheek had faded into scars over time, but he swears that he would feel them sting from time to time. 

This place... was not it at all. 

The area was abundant with trees and shrubbery, flowers of every colour and kind sprouting in patches across the forest floor. It was crawling with rabbits and deers, who scampered hastily at the sound of John’s horse trotting down the road. Nearby, John heard the loud rush of water from Donner Falls ringing in his ears. He smiled at the meticulously drawn red circle on his map. Charles had taken the time to write instructions at the back, knowing about John’s habit of getting terribly lost. 

_You were right as always, Charles,_ John thought. _This is a good place to rest._

John had decided to leave his horse at the bottom of the mountain. The journey was perilous and long, and Shire needed to rest. With his friend’s worn hat nestled on his head snugly, John took a deep, tremulous breath. Then, he began to climb. 

——

By the time John had reached the cliff’s surface, his energy had waned slightly. The past years weren’t as kind to him as he had hoped they would be — a rancher’s life was rough and bleak, and rarely did his efforts produce sufficient results. But Beecher’s Hope was good a ranch as any, and John never faltered once, not when he had mouths to feed. Not when he had a promise to keep his family safe. 

If Sadie were here to see him on his struggle to climb up a mountain, she would have laughed at his face and called him an old man. If Charles were here, he would have helped him get up on his feet encouragingly. And, if Arthur were here —

What would he do? 

John had tried to get rid of his past and start anew when they moved to West Elizabeth. He threw away most of his belongings from previous camps, having enough money to buy new clothes and hats. He even went so far as to forbid his family to talk about Dutch or Micah after the confrontation in Mount Hagen. Arthur’s old journals and possessions were locked away in a chest that was untouched for several years. John had forced wounds to heal, stitching them up tight and covering them up with plaster. And for the longest time, his efforts had worked, and the Van Der Linde gang had faded away from existence.

Now, all he had were fragments of his past, and no matter how hard he tried to piece them together, they were never whole. He would remember a lyric from a foreign song Javier had once sung at the campfire, or the acrid taste of Pearson’s navy rum. If he tried hard enough, he would sometimes hear Dutch’s laugh. But he never remembered anything about Arthur. Even his name was foreign and strange on his tongue now. 

As soon as John had heard news of Arthur’s death up in Roanoke, it felt as if his lungs were filled with black smoke and poison. John tried his best to forget everything about the man. Sometimes, he thinks he tried a little too hard to forget. Once, Arthur Morgan meant the entire world to John, but that was lifetimes ago. Now, he was nothing but a ghost. 

That was until he received a letter from Charles in the mail a few days ago, which included a map leading to Arthur’s grave. Charles had mentioned something about closure and coming to peace with John’s past. _You can never run away from who you were. You have to make peace with it._

Charles was unnecessarily poetic in the letter, which John suspected was probably a long-term effect of having found the love of his life in Canada. _I know you loved him,_ he had written in neat script. _And I know he haunts you._

And as soon as John laid his eyes on the stone, he knew it too. He waited with bated breath, his body having suddenly gone still. Then, he walked towards the stone. 

The years weren’t kind to the gravestone, as well. The stone was corroded and crumbled after the weather constantly beating down on it. From its perch on the high edge of the peak, it was exposed to all the elements — wind, sunlight, rain, hail. A few flowers grew in between the soil and stone. Violets and white poppies. Other than that, it looked like any other gravestone. What set it apart was the view, and what a hell of a view it was. Overlooking the vast forests that spread around the area and the snowy-white mountain tops of Ambarino, it was a breathtaking sight. 

John stopped and crouched slowly, right in front of the stone. He could barely make out the words that were carved onto it; _Arthur Morgan. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness._ He reached out and placed his hand on the stone firmly. _For they shall be satisfied,_ John thought.

“Hey, I’m sorry I took so long,” His voice was barely above a whisper, coarse and hesitant. “I tried to forget.” 

He doesn’t know why he waited for a reply, but he does. He inhaled shakily, and continued.

“I don’t remember much about you, but I know you was a good man. Too good for anyone.” 

A warm draft of wind suddenly rustled through his hair and clothes. It felt too real to be just a gust of wind, it felt palpable. Somehow, it felt like comfort. John looked around him, confused. 

“I‘m different now,” he continued slowly. “I started a ranch, years ago. Beecher’s Hope, it’s called. A few miles east of Blackwater. You woulda loved it. I know Abigail does. So does Jack. You remember them, don’t you?” 

For a while, John went quiet as the whole world went on around him. What else could he say about a man he tried so hard to erase from his life? A man whose death had haunted him so much that he had nothing left to do but to shove it away? 

Suddenly, he felt a tingling in his ear. Soft as a whisper, yet the voices were strong in his mind, as if they were from yesterday. _Listen to me... when the time comes, you gotta run and don’t look back._

“I didn’t look back. Just like... you told me.” John’s grip on the stone tightened until his knuckles turned white. His brain started to go haywire, like an someone had set it on fire. “Dutch... he told us to bomb those tracks. We was on those tracks, when you told me.” John inhaled sharply. “I remember, Arthur.”

Everything then slowed down and quieted — the splashes of water from the falls nearby, the birds chirping from above — all gone. The only thing John heard at this point was the sound of his own breath. Then, everything came crashing down on him. His mind felt like it was being torn apart, bit by bit. Hundreds of images flash between his eyes, a thousand voices reverberated in his skull, and it was all he could do not to clutch at his head and scream. 

_That’s quite a scratch you got there._

_That is a real idea... I think that’s the first time you ever had one of them._

_Shut up._

_I feel like you should take your woman and child, and get lost._

_You left me to die, Dutch!_

_Arthur..._

_Get the hell outta here and be a goddamn man!_

_You’re my brother._

By the time John looked up, his face was blotchy and streaked with tears of unspoken words and deep regrets. Arthur’s face from that night is a clear image in his mind, his voice resonated within him. _I know, I know._ Arthur had looked worse for wear, red seeping into his eyes, his cheeks hollow and pale. But John swore that there was a fire in his eyes that night. 

He remembered Arthur’s snarky remarks about the wolf incident and his stupidity. How the dim light from crackling embers of the campfire reflected on every line and wrinkle on his face. How he would smoke a cigar by the edge of the cliffside after each and every train heist. How he would find a quiet spot under a tree or on the steps of a church and draw in that damned journal for hours on end. How his looks of disdain would gradually turn into expressions of fondness and admiration whenever he observed John. 

The Van Der Linde gang was a gang of misfits and criminals, people who murdered in cold blood and relished at the anguish of those who wronged them. Arthur was just a criminal as any, he was far from innocent. But he had a good heart in him, and from the moment John had joined the group, he knew this instantly. He was strong, and skilled, stupidly loyal to a fault, and all John ever wanted to be. All he ever wanted was to be his equal. 

The ache in his heart intensified tenfold, and for a minute, he doesn’t know if he can take it. Years and years of unspoken grief suddenly crashed down on him, and the guilt is almost unbearable. John then realized that this was the same kind of pain he felt with his scars. All this time, they never really healed. They would come back to haunt him for the rest of his life.

“...I didn’t save you.” John made out through gritted teeth and a myriad of tears. “I left you to die on that fucking mountain. You were already dying, but I sealed your fate. I was a fucking coward, I could’ve saved you —“

Echoes of gunshots plagued his dreams for months on end. He had stolen a horse from a dead Pinkerton at the bottom of the mountain that night and rode away. John didn’t look back, not even once. He left him for dead up on that mountain. Remorse seeped into the back of his neck and flooded his insides, filling him like thick, heavy liquid.

Suddenly, a warm current of air then breezed past him, lingering on his face before disappearing entirely. He rubbed the tears from his eyes and looked to where the current stopped. There, on the side of the cliff, a few feet away from him, was a stag. 

The stag observed John with blue, knowing eyes. Then, it ran off.


End file.
